


A Rare Bird

by spacehopper



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Courting Rituals, Dancing, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Interior Decorating, M/M, Mutual Pining, Wingfic, obserb this berb
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:00:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28079574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehopper/pseuds/spacehopper
Summary: Jon and Martin dance around each other, from unfortunate first meetings to tentative overtures to fully fledged romance.(A series of short fics set in an AU where most things are the same. Except in this universe, Jon has wings and uses dancing and redecorating for courtship. Because he’s a bowerbirdman.)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 145
Kudos: 197





	1. Ode to a Bowerbird

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collection of fics initially inspired by a discussion of AUs where people showed their affection by decorating their living spaces in ways that are appealing to whoever they were pining for, a bit like bowerbirds. And then I decided why not add even more bowerbird, with wings and bird eyes and also courtship dances. 
> 
> This AU is tied to the canon timeline, but the installments won't necessarily be in a chronological order and can be read as stand-alones. There’s no overarching theme or plot beyond my desire to write goofy short fics about Jon as a bowerbirdman and Martin being very much into that.
> 
> Also, just for reference, [this is the bowerbird](https://youtu.be/1XkPeN3AWIE) Jon is very, very roughly based on. Mostly for wing/eye appearance and somewhat dance references. 
> 
> First fic set before and during season 1.

_**“Covers” by M. Blackwood** _

_A splash of scarlet between shelves  
Melts into burnished gold.  
A new rare find I leap to read;  
This one is rarer than most.  
What will I find, beneath the cover?  
I yet hope I might know._

Martin has been trying to find a reason to talk to Jonathan Sims for two weeks now, but literally running into him probably isn’t the best way to do so. It isn’t like he means to; he’s just distracted by the recent flood of new books and their potentially murderous nature. He babbles apologies as he gathers the books he knocked from Jon’s arms, watching him through the scant cover of his fringe as Jon straightens his cardigan and smooths ruffled feathers.

“Yes, yes, it’s fine.” He takes the fallen books from Martin, their fingers brushing for the briefest instant. Their eyes meet; his are as golden as his wings. “Just watch where you’re going next time.”

Then he’s gone, leaving Martin utterly breathless as his wing casually brushes Martin’s cheek. He knows it means nothing. The library is cramped, this area in particular. Just like ‘next time’ means nothing, a casual pleasantry uttered without a thought to its underlying meaning.

But Martin clings to them all the same. Maybe he’s mucked it up this time, but one unfortunate accident doesn’t mean it’s all doomed. He’ll find a way to somehow impress Jonathan Sims.

He just needs another chance.

* * *

_**“Fall” by Martin K. B.** _

_For months I watched videos,  
Dancing wings from far-flung lands,  
Eyes always on their dearest—  
But they could never see me._

_He doesn’t have their easy grace  
Hunched with frustration and fury  
The weight of the help he refused  
Except when he forgets, feathers  
Fluttering in the breeze like leaves  
Unknowing beauty turning again  
His baleful golden eyes on me_

_I can never find the words to speak  
Tongue twisted and crushed under ins’curity  
Gone again and I’m left falling to  
My seat, my lonely perch in the shade  
The question still forever unasked:  
Will he ever dance for me?  
_

“Martin? Martin, where’s that report, I asked for it done hours ago, you know I’m behind on statements—”

Martin only just manages to shove the notebook under a pile of documents regarding the haunting of a tech startup’s loo before Jon peers around the corner, eyes sweeping over the area with a judgment that makes Martin wince.

“Just because I can’t see you over here doesn’t mean you don’t have to do your work.”

He’s scanning Martin’s desk suspiciously, and Martin forces himself to remain still. Any movement might alert Jon to what he’s hiding. And it’s not like a bit of poetry is that big a deal. Jon never does more than grumble when he catches Tim texting or Sasha scrolling through her phone. But it’s different when it’s Martin, isn’t it? They don’t have to prove themselves; he does.

“I’m sorry, Jon, just there were a few complications? I can’t find any more details on Mr. Vittery’s flat, just that he definitely lived there. I was hoping maybe I could make a few more calls—”

Jon waves a hand dismissively, and his wing mirrors the movement. It’s a subtle thing, a lifting, a flick that sends the paper fluttering the tiniest bit. A stirring of air that still steals Marint’s breath, the same way Jon’s sharp eyes and sharp tongue do when they turn on him.

“Don’t worry about it. If it’s incomplete, it won’t be the first time.”

Jon’s gone in a flash, stalking back to his office in a way that’s more irritable cat than elegant bird. But perhaps that’s more his type anyway. Martin’s seen the videos, knows how varied the dances can be. Even if it’s as sharp and prickly as Jon himself, he still wants to see it. Wants Jon to do it while focusing that hot gaze on him.

He pulls his notebook from under the papers, and places it inside his desk. Then he gathers his things and heads for Jon’s office. There’s more than one way to do research. If this requires a more illicit investigation, then Martin can do that. And maybe he’ll at least see Jon’s eyes dance with something other than scorn.

* * *

_**“Chance” by Martin B.**  
The time is late.  
The sun is low,  
Setting on me.  
I welcome it._

_The inferno banked,  
A warm glow looms high.  
The smile pulled soft  
Dislodged by a shake._

_Thanks for the umbrella;  
A nightmare, getting dry.  
I tell him no problem  
I always hate it, too.  
We share a brief moment—  
He’s gone._

_I shouldn’t hope,  
But maybe there’s a chance  
To someday see his dance.  
_

Jon returns the umbrella a week later, alongside a heavy plastic bag.

“For forgetting to return it. I know it’s rained since then, and I did mean to, but well…” His wings rise and expand slightly, falling down into a dramatic shrug. “You know how it’s been.”

He looks away, pupils widening in a way Martin knows is unconscious. Not in the way his do, responding to the light. He knows Jon can control it, just that he sometimes forgets, lost in thoughts he rarely bothers to voice to Martin.

“What’s this?” Martin says, tapping the bag. He knows what it seems like, the bend of cheap plastic and the smell of curry. But it’s not so long ago the idea of Jon bringing it for him would be absurd. And maybe it’s selfish; maybe it’s silly. But he wants to hear Jon say it.

“Dinner. An apology, and well, I know you don’t get out much.” His wings flutter again, and he takes an aborted step towards Martin. “I thought you might want something from outside the canteen.”

Martin doesn’t bother to point out that he’s perfectly capable of ordering delivery, and that he has. And that Jon knows he has, insisting on paying for it just last week despite Martin’s admittedly feeble protests. He knows it’s mostly guilt fueling this, that the affection he’s looking for is only Jon’s far too recent revelation he was being a bit of an ass.

But still. Still. Jon doesn’t need to hover like this, doesn’t need to watch Martin’s face as he opens the bag and grabs the top container. And he doesn’t stop watching, seemingly waiting for Martin as he pulls the lid open, inhales, and sighs with a pleasure that’s entirely genuine.

“You want some?” In a moment of daring, he pats the cot next to him. “There’s plenty here, and you know the fridge is broken.”

“Right,” Jon says, taking another, hesitant step forward. “So it is.”

He scans the cot, and Martin nearly blurts out an apology, because of course it was a stupid offer. Before Martin moved in, the cot had been in the center of the room, leaving enough space for Jon. But since he’d pushed it against the wall in an organizational fit, it’s a tight fit. Even with him perched on the edge, the only place he can put the other—

Jon sits, spreading his right wing behind Martin. Still not touching him, or not mostly. But close enough that when Jon shifts, it momentarily brushes his back.

“Sorry,” Jon says. “I hope this is okay?”

“Wonderful,” Martin says, giving him a dopey smile before he catches himself. “I mean yes, it’s fine. Curry?”

He holds the other container out to Jon. Their fingers brush; Jon smiles.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during Season 2.

Martin’s desk is a complex problem. 

Once, Jon might’ve considered it anything but. Oh, most certainly a problem, the eclectic mix of kitschy décor entirely at odds with the aesthetic of the Archives. Though even then, he had to admit it wasn’t nearly as bad as Tim’s. But the problem was simple, if one Elias had obstinately refused to let him solve. Some rot about employee morale and the decorations being perfectly within the limits set by the employee handbook. And in the end, Jon had better things to do than argue. 

To think he used to be worried about such small things. All a distraction from what he knew even then must be waiting, if not in what form. 

The quiet of the Archives is complete, when he steps out of his office. Everyone else left hours ago, but he forced himself to wait. Wanting to make sure he truly was alone, before he pursued this particular investigation. It wouldn’t do to arouse suspicion, and also…well, he dislikes having to deal with the look Martin gives him when he’s disappointed. If there’s nothing to find, it’s better Martin doesn’t know. 

He pulls his wings close to his body, cautious of how one misplaced flick might dislodge an item off his assistants’ desks as he winds his way over to Martin’s. Another argument with Elias, about how it might be better if some of them—if Martin—had his desk elsewhere to make it easier for Jon. And again, Elias was wildly unhelpful, suggesting adjustments to the floorplan that would’ve given more space, yes, but also brought Martin closer to Jon’s office. Another meeting he left in a huff, assuring himself he didn’t really want to have easy access to Martin’s desk anyway. 

It’s a choice he regrets now. Not simply because it would be easier, but also because he wishes he could watch Martin more closely. Observe how he works, trying to understand the cunning Jon knows is there, the spark of intelligence he dismissed. 

And though it pains him to admit it, Martin’s also the only one who attempts to be friendly anymore. As much as it once annoyed Jon, now he finds he sometimes welcomes it, when his thoughts begin to rattle in his head and he needs to be anywhere but here. Even if he still doesn’t trust it, can’t trust it, he sometimes wishes he could truly confide in Martin. Could ask Martin directly about himself, in order to understand him.

Maybe someday. When he knows it’s safe. But for now, he needs to try a less direct approach. And a workspace—particularly one accented with personal touches—seems a good start. 

The first item Jon reaches for is the salt lamp. He certainly doesn’t believe it has any beneficial properties, something he was quick to state when Martin first brought it in. Martin actually laughed when he’d derided the claims, agreeing it was a load of guff. _I just think they’re pretty,_ he said with a small smile. Jon didn’t even remember what his own reply had been. Probably some inane excuse, some way to make it Martin’s fault that he assumed Martin’s reasons. 

Christ, what an idiot he’d been. 

Now he lifts it to look under it, to stare into the replica salt surface for any hint it’s more than a cheap desk accessory. It’s certainly not impossible that it holds some secret that might land it in Artefact Storage. But no, it’s just what it seems. At most, it might serve as a blunt instrument to bash in his head, but Martin can certainly access far more deadly weapons if it comes to that. 

So he sets it back where it was, and turns to the next item: a small plant, completely fake. He picks it up to examine it on principle, but he doesn’t expect to find anything. It’s a replacement for the live one Martin brought with him when he first started. When it finally died, Jon asked Martin what he’d expected. There wasn’t exactly natural light here; he should’ve simply bought a fake one. Martin gave him a weak, watery smile, and agreed. When Jon saw the plastic replacement the next day, he’d felt a pang of guilt he immediately dismissed. Hardly his fault the plant had died, and only reasonable that Martin took his advice. 

But looking at the dusty replacement now, he admits it isn’t quite the same. Would there be a way to keep one alive down here? A sun lamp or something, to give it the light it needs. Perhaps he’ll try it himself, and if it works, gift it to Martin. The more he thinks about it, the more he likes the idea. If Martin notices Jon’s tampering, it’s the perfect excuse to allay suspicion. 

Finally, he regards the pen holder, and feels a sudden surge of fear at how ominous it looks. It doesn’t have to mean anything, he knows, and why would Martin show any murderous intentions so blatantly? But there’s no denying the symbolism of the cat curled around the base, the way it stares up hungrily at the bright yellow bird perched upon the rim. 

How long has Martin had it? Jon tries to remember, but finds he can only recall seeing it after Prentiss’s attack. Noticing in passing how Martin ran a fond finger over the back of the bird, before pulling out a pen. Then he’d looked up at Jon, and Jon had hurried back to office to avoid another entirely unfounded accusation of spying.

He forces himself to turn away from Martin’s desk and takes a shaky breath. It’s just a pen holder, nothing more. Fitting perfectly with the homey accents Martin seems to favor, eclectic and silly and completely inoffensive. But perhaps that’s part of Martin’s entire plan. To throw him off, to seem harmless and utterly disarming. It’s not enough to be sure yet, but it’s something to watch, a reason to suspect. As if he needs another.

But for now, he has to go. He turns again, and realizes too late that in his surge of panic he raised his wings. The edge of one swipes across the desk, sending the pen holder crashing to the floor, where it cracks in half. 

Jon curses softly and picks up the pieces in his hand. Can he repair it? Even if he can, Martin will certainly notice. Maybe it’s better to take it with him, to feign ignorance when Martin asks where it went. He scoops up the pens for good measure, tucking them and the remains of the pen holder into his bag. 

With a murderer on the loose, it isn’t too much to imply a bit of thievery might happen. If Martin doesn’t believe it, then that’s more reason to suspect. And if he does—

Jon shakes his head, and takes a steadying breath. He can’t know, and he can’t raise further suspicion. So either way, he’ll make sure to buy Martin a new pen holder. And maybe a plant.

Perhaps he’ll even ask again about moving Martin. It would be nice to observe him more clearly, and avoid any further unforeseen collisions.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A series of vignettes set during S1 and S2.

Martin has to stifle a laugh, when he first sees Jon and Elias standing side by side at Jon’s party with their wings held in nearly identical positions. It’s not that funny, he supposes. Really, it’s almost a bit cute? Though he’d never dare say so to Jon. Or Elias. That might be even worse.

And well, he doesn’t want to assume, does he? Maybe that’s just a normal way to hold wings, that fine control that looks effortless on Elias and strained on Jon. It’s not like he has them, but well, he has spent a bit too much time studying Jon, hasn’t he? So maybe he’s noticed some things. 

Like how when Elias turns away, Jon’s wings relax just a bit, though his eyes remain fixed on Elias’s back. It’s a lot closer to how he normally holds them, and Martin suspects it’s what feels more natural to Jon, whether it’s personal preference or wing shape or something else. When Elias turns back, Jon’s wings lift and stiffen again, and Martin can’t help the fond smile that creeps onto his lips. 

_Wants to impress the boss, doesn’t he?_ The thought lodges deep, and he finds the smile dropping from his face as he gets to his feet. Not that he thinks there’s really more to it than that. Of course there isn’t. And inserting himself is only going to make him a target for Jon’s ire, but still, he can’t help feel a bit better when Jon’s wings twitch with a familiar irritation, and his golden eyes shift their focus.

“Is there something you want, Martin?”

There isn’t, at least not that Jon wants to give him. He stammers through some explanation that only seems to irritate Jon more, but that’s fine, isn’t it? He’s still focused on Martin. And his wings are nothing like Elias’s.

* * *

Jon spreads his wings wider than the small confines of the storage room really allow. The tips brush against the walls as he sits stooped over on the cot. It’s strange, because it doesn’t really make sense, does it? Greater area, less maneuverability, but maybe it helps him cool off? What with all the excitement, and feathers must be warm. 

But he keeps his wings spread even as his breathing slows. It can’t be comfortable, but in the uneasy silence Martin can’t bring himself to ask. It doesn’t really matter, and it’s probably a bit rude, and anyway, they have more important things to worry about. Maybe he can find out later. Maybe Tim will know. 

It’s only when the banging starts that Martin realizes exactly what the wings must be. Jon gets up, tucking his wings and spinning only to fling them open again between Martin and the wall. He’s—it doesn’t make sense, leaves Martin reeling even as Tim bursts through and Jon’s wings slowly droop.

There’s only one reason for Jon to block that wall. To stand between danger and Martin. He’s protecting Martin, or trying to, because wings aren’t likely to do much against worms. They’re as much flesh and blood as the rest of blood, if more covered in feathers. But feathers aren’t going to stop those tiny, horrible things. 

He gets all the confirmation he needs later, babbling apologies as he sees Jon’s wings dotted with white patches of gauze, soaked through in places with red that has none of the brilliance of his feathers. But even as he’s speaking, Jon’s wings flare suddenly, making Martin’s breath catch as Jon assures him it’s okay. That they’re all okay.

 _You wanted to protect me._ The words are too unfamiliar, too dangerous to leave Martin’s throat. Too caught up in the guilt of what he’d failed to do. _Even though I didn’t protect you._

All he can do now is tell Jon what he wants to know. So he does, pouring it out into the tape recorder as Jon’s wings tremble with barely contained fear and exhaustion. When Martin finally finishes, they droop. The tips disturb a small pile of worm corpses, but Jon doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Are you going to be alright?” Martin asks, when he’s already halfway to the door. 

Jon’s wings lift suddenly, and Martin’s throat tightens at the sight. 

“I’ll be fine, Martin. Get some rest.”

* * *

Jon isn’t fine, of course. No matter how much he says he is, Martin notices it in his haggard expression, how his feathers seem duller, a few even askew. The way he holds his wings has changed as well, a tightness that’s all fear right until they flag into an exhausted slump. He can’t keep going on like this. But Martin doesn’t know how to get him to stop. 

It only gets worse when Jon comes in one day with a wing in some sort of odd brace. Alarming as that is, it only gets worse when Martin sees the back of it, the gauze pad fastened across a stretch of feathers. 

“Jon, what did you do?” 

He tries to jerk his wing closed, wincing as he fails and pulls on the wound. His wing is trembling slightly; Martin’s fingers curl in an effort not to touch it. To draw out that pain, that fear with a gentle brush of his hands.

But he knows it’s not that simple. 

“I—I cut myself. It’s nothing.”

“Nothing? How did you…I mean, it’s on the back of your wing?” He supposes Jon could’ve fallen on something, but he knows already that the answer isn’t anything so simple.

“It was a bread knife.”

Martin blinks. “A…break knife?” He expected a lie, but that one is bad even for Jon. 

“Yes,” Jon says, crossing his arms defiantly. “I tripped.” He stares at Martin, his pupils shifting in size rather violently. 

“Right.” There’s no point in arguing with him when he’s like this. He’ll try and get it out of Jon later when he’s calmed down a bit. But as he turns to go, he can’t help but notice the way Jon’s arms relax, and he reaches back to try and adjust the bandage. And he can’t stop himself from asking, “Do you need help?”

“I— No. I don’t.” 

His lips press together, and Martin sighs. But before he can leave, Jon clears his throat, and his uninjured wing flicks out, almost like a nervous tick.

“Maybe later? It’s a bit hard to reach. If you don’t mind, of course.”

How could Martin mind? But Jon doesn’t know, so he forces his grin into a more constrained smile when he says, “Not at all. Just let me know when.”

* * *

His feathers are soft, when Martin finally gets to touch them. Even tacky with dried blood, they’re beautiful as well. And maybe it’s wrong, he knows it’s probably wrong, but he can’t help but take the chance to rest his hand lightly next to the wound. Can’t help but notice that Jon shudders, but doesn’t push him away, even when gives the wing a tentative stroke.

“The bandages, Martin?” 

It’s probably wishful thinking, but Jon sounds almost flustered. Martin wishes he could see Jon’s face, even as he’s glad he can’t. It’s nice, to have the fantasy while it lasts.

He’ll cling to the belief that Jon really trusts him, that Jon wants him here as long as he can.

* * *

Jon’s wings are already raised higher than normal when he barks at Martin to sit down. They only grow more so as he continues to shout, to yell at Martin for who knows what, nothing Martin’s done but that doesn’t matter to Jon these days, does it? His wings are spread, but there’s nothing of protection to it, only anger, as if trying to make himself seem bigger. Or maybe just poised for attack.

But an attack never comes, and when the truth comes out Martin finds himself shocked to see the sudden falling of Jon’s wings, not tight against his back but hanging loose in obvious relief. Even more shocking is the way he flicks one out—an accident, surely—brushing lightly against Martin’s hand. 

Jon wants to trust Martin. That’s the only explanation, as he smiles and leans heavily against his desk. And when Martin looks at his wings, he thinks—at least for now—that Jon might actually really mean it when he says he’s relieved.

* * *

Trust doesn’t mean Jon really talks to Martin, at least not about the things that trouble him. It doesn’t mean Martin knows any more than Tim, when they emerge from Michael’s corridors to find a dead man and blood spattered on the floor.

Jon tried to protect them, sending them away. But from what? He can’t have done this. Martin knows it, from the swell and quick fall he’d seen of Jon’s anger. From the desperate attempts at protection.

But when he dares walk towards the blood, he sees a golden feather amidst in the red mess. It’s tacky with blood, and all he can says is, “Oh Jon…what have you done?”

The lone feather provides no answers.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during early season 3.

Detective Tonner circles his desk, and Martin tries to focus on his work. 

It’s pointless, and he knows she has to know he hasn’t read a word of the book he’s slowly flipping through. Watching him like a hawk, a turn of phrase feels far too literal with her eyes on him. What does she expect to find here, that she couldn’t have gotten from interrogation? Evidence, he supposes. Of the guilt she’s already decided. 

“Quite the setup you’ve got,” she says. 

Martin jumps, looking up to see her tapping the sun lamp with one finger. Her nails are blunt, but the way her finger curls as she hooks it over the edge of the pot makes Martin think of talons. Dragging it towards until Martin’s hand snaps out, holding the plant in place. 

Her wings flare, sleek and elegant and perfectly maintained, the weapons of a killer, and nothing at all like Jon’s flashier set, always with the odd feather out of place. The break in her tightly coiled composure is only a brief lapse, or maybe a warning. One Martin should heed, if he has any sense. 

“Jon gave it to me,” Martin says, proving very much that he doesn’t have sense. Maybe he’s filling in for Jon, while he’s out of the office. Out being stalked by a crazed hunter, who sees prey wherever she looks. She already thinks Martin is helping Jon; he shouldn’t have given her more reason to suspect. But then, despite her words before, what reason is there?

“Secret Santa,” he adds. “It’s nothing personal.” The admission smarts, but it’s true, and more importantly, it might get her to back off. And back off she does, though not before she brushes the edge of a wing over his desk, knocking a pen onto the floor.

“Sims give you anything else?” 

Martin frowns as he picks the pen up, setting it back in the pen holder.

“Just this. Mine disappeared. I think he felt bad? He was, well.” Detective Tonner really doesn’t need to know about the paranoia. “There were some difficulties? I think it was an apology.” 

Jon had muttered some excuse about how he knew Martin lost his, refusing to meet his eyes. Martin suspects there’s more to the story, but he hadn’t had time to ask when Jon thrust it into his hands and stalked off. And after, he hadn’t wanted to. The reason didn’t matter then. It doesn’t matter now. 

“Hmm.” Her eyes narrow, and her wings lift briefly, before she pulls them tightly against her back. “I have more interviews to do.”

She’s leaving. Martin knows he should let her. That there’s probably nothing significant in her suspicion, that she already made her belief their personal connection was the issue clear. But if she already thinks they’re close…

“What is it?” Martin asks. “Why would it even matter?”

She snorts, and doesn’t turn back. But she does answer his question.

“Bowerbird, isn’t he? They love decorating.” Then she’s gone, and Martin is left with more questions than answers. And hopes that he know he shouldn’t have.

Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but he’s gotten by on years of that. So he takes a deep breath, and lets himself hope that when he types his questions into Google, he’ll get the confirmation he wants. 

_what mean bowerbird decorating_

Jon isn’t courting him. But for a moment, Martin lets himself believe.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jumping back to S2 for a little Christmas cheer! Jon gets Martin a plant.

There are far too many lists, and Jon can’t tell which of them is _right_. He slams his laptop shut, collapsing on top of it and staring through his open office door at Martin’s desk. It’s empty, has been for hours, because Martin left. A bit late, because he always seems to linger, and Jon tries to not think too hard about why, to assign motive and blame. It doesn’t matter anyway. Only that he left, so Jon could begin his research anew; Martin came far too close to guessing last time. 

Though he supposes Martin wouldn’t really suspect, would he? It’s not like there’s anything terribly suspicious about a plant. Or at least not lists of the best houseplants, easy to take care of and lovely to look at and so many variables Jon barely understands. He’s never been a plant person, always watering them too much or not enough. Or both a few times, in the vain hope the plant would recover. 

His wings droop, and he lets them stay there, brushing the floor. His grandmother never liked when he did that, though she never tried to stop him either. She always looked at him with raised eyebrows, commenting dryly that dirt and feathers were a poor combination. She was right, of course. And Jon is being as ridiculous now as he was then, slumped over his desk, dazed and hopeless as some poor sod who’d smacked into a building. 

Maybe he should’ve used that as his excuse instead, as an explanation for his encounter with Michael. A bit of recreational flying, took a wrong turn. The latter isn’t entirely incorrect, even if the turn is more metaphorical. But no, he’s wasting time, and Martin likely wouldn’t have believed that either. Jon needs to focus on the issue at hand. 

The office Secret Santa. 

He expects the results were manipulated to give him Martin, what with no one else particularly wanting to deal with him. But he doesn’t really mind. Of all of them, Martin is the least, well. Jon sighs, raising his wing to drape it over his head, taking solace in the peaceful darkness it brings. It’s not that Martin isn’t a suspect. In fact, his seeming fondness for Jon should raise suspicion further. 

But his company is appreciated, and even if Jon’s not certain about him, what’s wrong with showing that appreciation a bit? Particularly now, after Jon saw how strangely crestfallen Martin was at his missing pen holder. A pen holder he believes—no, he _knows_ —was exactly what it seemed. Just another kitschy decoration for Martin’s desk. The bird on it a mere coincidence, nothing more. 

So he owes Martin an apology, even if Martin doesn’t know why. And that means he needs to do this the right way. With another sigh, he folds his wings and forces himself to his feet, grabbing his heavy winter cloak off the rack and draping it over his back. 

Like it or not, he’s going to have to consult a specialist.

* * *

“So this is a gift?” 

The man behind the counter is smiling at him, in a way that reminds Jon uncomfortably of Tim. It’s a look that seems an eyebrow raise away from innuendo. And however much Martin sighs and tells Jon he’s reading too much into this sort of thing, he’s not dense. 

“For a colleague,” Jon says, adjusting his wings so they’re held tight against his back. He knows sometimes he moves them in a way that might be construed by some as nervousness or uncertainty, and he wants to head that off. Best to project confidence, though he’s anything but confident when it comes to the purchase of a plant. “It’s for a Secret Santa.”

“And you want a plant?” The man seems genuinely taken aback. Jon’s eyes narrow. Is it really that strange a gift? He supposes it’s a bit more expensive than average, but he has his reasons for that. Reasons this stranger doesn’t need to know.

“Yes. Something that’s easy to take care of, and also…do you sell grow lights?” 

“Sure,” the man says wandering away from the counter and into the aisles of the garden center, clearly expecting Jon to follow. “Want to cover all your bases?”

His tone is suspiciously neutral, but Jon bites back his kneejerk cutting response. He’s trying to sell Jon a houseplant, and he’s making small talk. It’s a completely normal thing. Neither murderous nor suggestive, no matter how much Jon swears he sees a humorous twinkle in the man’s eyes when they stop at a display and he turns back to Jon. 

“Yes,” Jon says curtly. “The last plant died.” 

“Not a lot of sunlight? I can definitely help you with that. And this should be a good choice, if you want something that’s not too tricky to take care of.” He pats the side of a vibrant green plant with wide leaves and dangling stems. Jon’s not sure what it is or if Martin will like it, but he has to start somewhere. This plant is as good as any. 

“I’ll take it,” he says, grabbing it off the shelf. “And whatever grow light you think is best.” He’s probably setting himself up to be sold a more expensive model. But really, isn’t it better that way? To have something that works the first time and works well, rather than the cheapest thing they have. 

“I’ll give you care instructions as well,” the man says as they walk back to the register. 

Jon doesn’t like the way he’s eyeing Jon, or his grip on the plant. But he’ll be free of this man soon, and free to continue his experiment. He doesn’t have much time to test the plant before giving it to Martin.

* * *

The next week passes with shocking success. Jon follows the instructions for the care of _Philodendron scandens_ to the letter. In his flat, there’s sufficient light he doesn’t need the grow light, but he makes sure to keep the plant away from the windows to test that as well. Maybe a week isn’t long enough to truly tell, but at the very least it’s long enough to know it won’t be an immediate failure.

Wrapping the thing proves mildly nightmarish. The grow light goes easily enough into a box to be covered with red and gold wrapping paper, but a plant is a trickier problem. His attempts to wrap it look like a child’s pathetic efforts, and in the end he settles on sticking one of the myriad bows littering the apparent onto the pot, and adding a gift tag. 

At the Institute, he flutters around nervously for the first few hours of the day, keeping his office door firmly shut. There are no firm rules about when to give gifts, just that they have to be exchanged sometime today. Finally, he pokes his nose out to see Tim and Sasha have both gone to lunch, and he makes his move. Gathering both items into his arms, he steps out of his office, and heads to Martin’s desk.

Martin looks up immediately, his eyes widening with what Jon hopes isn’t unpleasant surprise. Christ, this is overdoing it, isn’t it? What if Martin thinks it’s some angle from Jon, an attempt to spy on him by bugging the plant or something? But no, no. Martin wouldn’t think that. He needs to focus. To smile, or maybe not given Martin looks even more alarmed when he does that.

“Jon, what is this?”

Jon looks down at his arms, then back at Martin.

“It’s a plant. And, well,” he says, thrusting the wrapped box at Martin, “open it.”

“Okay,” Martin says, drawing out the word as he turns the box over in his hands.

“It’s not going to bite,” Jon snaps. Christ, he needs to calm down. This isn’t that big a deal, and it’s supposed to be _nice._ “I mean, it’s a present. Secret Santa. It’s not…there’s nothing sinister to it.”

Martin gives him an exasperated look, and his lips twitch. “I didn’t think there was. I’m just…surprised.”

Jon forces himself to remain still and silent as Martin opens the box, though he catches himself opening his wings more than once. Some new and terrible nervous tic, that he really needs to get under control. And he has plenty of time to practice now, with Martin being annoyingly fastidious about opening the present, carefully peeling back the tape and folding the paper on his desk. 

“Well?” Jon asks impatiently, when Martin fails to say anything after opening the box, staring at the sun lamp mutely.

“It’s—” Martin drags a hand down his face, letting out a nervous laugh. “It’s too much, Jon. You have to know that, right?”

Is it? Jon supposes technically that’s true, though all his reasoning made perfect sense in his head. Martin deserves more, and his desk will just be…better, if he has this plant, and a way to keep it alive. Jon knows it, feels it in his wings which have spread yet again. 

He just needs to find a way to explain it to Martin. 

“Look, I know I’ve been…difficult, lately.” 

“That’s one way of putting it,” Martin says. Jon’s chest tightens, and his wings droop, but before he can apologize Martin shakes his head. “I’m sorry, that’s not fair.”

“No,” Jon says with a sigh. “It is fair. I wanted to, well, I know you had a plant before, and it died, and I thought…” He sets the plant on the desk and nudges it towards Martin. 

“You thought you could help.” Martin gives Jon a small smile and fiddles with the wrapping around the plant, pulling out a tag Jon had missed. “Philodendron scandens. The…” Martin coughs, and his cheeks seem suddenly redder. “The Sweetheart Plant.”

“What?” Jon’s wings snap tight against his back. “Oh god, Martin, I’m sorry, that must…” His own face heats, and he pushes past it. “It’s inappropriate, I didn’t mean it like that. I just asked for something that was easy to take care of indoors, and I didn’t look at the tag.” His heart is pounding in his chest, throat tightening. With all he’s done lately, what’s Martin going to think of him now? 

“No, no, it’s fine,” Martin says. There’s something odd in his tone, something Jon can’t read. When he looks up at Jon again, a bright smile stretches across his face. “I know you don’t mean it like that. But I still love it, I mean, I love it anyway, that is…” His face is nearly scarlet now; at least Jon isn’t the only one struggling.

“I’m glad, Martin. That’s, it’s good. Very good. There are instructions for the plant. In the box. If you need them.” 

Martin nods, and Jon hovers for a moment, not quite sure if he should say something else or make his escape. As the silence stretches between them, he decides on the latter, spinning on his heel to retreat back into his office, only to be stopped by a sudden call after him.

“Jon, wait.” 

He doesn’t turn back around, listening as Martin’s desk chair scrapes against the floor and he crosses the distance between them. Before he can ask what Martin wants, he feels a feather-light touch on his wing, and shivers as he turns to face Martin.

“Sorry,” Martin says. There’s a bow in his palm; it must’ve gotten stuck to Jon’s wing when he was making a mess of the wrapping. “Didn’t think you wanted to run around with this all day, though.”

“No, I…no. You’re quite right, Martin. Thank you.” He takes a step back, giving Martin a curt nod as he finally makes his escape. “Happy Christmas.”

It’s only as his office door is clicking shut that he catches Martin’s response, muffled by the door so he can only make out two words. ‘Beautiful’ and ‘Jon.’ He must like the plant, then. 

That’s good. It’s…it’s good. That’s all that matters now. Despite the awkwardness, he finds himself smiling as he settles back at his desk. Maybe this will be a Happy Christmas after all. If only in this one small way.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to season 3, with a guest appearance from the Admiral. Cat vs Bird(man): who will come out on top? :D

“Enjoy your Hungarian mountain man. If you’re literally swept off your feet, I’ll be sure to send the Admiral to retrieve you,” Jon says, hovering in the entryway as Georgie pulls on her jacket.

“I’ll try to avoid diving off the many mountains of London with him. See you later!” 

The door clicks shut behind her, and Jon stares at it for a moment, a small smile tugging at his lips. She’s likely right, that nothing will occur except the consumption of Hungarian food, but the videos her date had up were certainly…something. Rather modern, to Jon’s admittedly inexpert eye, his courting dances done as plunges from craggy peaks. _Loving on the edge is the only way to be,_ a sentiment so silly he thought even Martin might find it rather trite. 

Still, Jon has to admit, the video Georgie showed him had been at bit impressive. Her date has massive white and grey wings, and Jon can see how one might be taken with his dramatic dives, even if he would argue such moves could barely be called dancing. Not that he really has strong opinions on the matter, never being terribly interested himself. And Georgie, well, he thought about it once. But it never seemed like the right time, and then any chance was lost. Probably for the best, in the end. Even if the thought still nags at him.

Would Martin be impressed? It’s a strange thought, one that carries him to the sofa, where Georgie’s laptop rests. After all, what does it matter if Martin would? He’s certainly well within his right to be impressed by whatever he likes, including more modern forms of courting dance. Jon logs into the profile Georgie created from him, teeth digging into his lower lip. Obviously he can’t ask. It would be a weird question regardless, and anyway, he’s on the run. Even if Martin thinks he’s innocent, he certainly can’t endanger him over something so minor. 

A quiet merp drags him out of his thoughts, and he looks to his side to find the Admiral there, head tilted in obvious command. Jon obeys, of course, giving him the head scritches that are his right while he turns his gaze back to the laptop.

“Are you impressed by courting dances?” Jon asks, opening the browser. The Admiral meows, then butts his head against Jon’s hand; Jon decides to take that as a ‘no.’ 

Before he’s fully formed the intent, he finds himself on YouTube, typing ‘courting dances’ into the search. He quickly modifies the search to ‘traditional courting dances’; if he wants to prove his point to Martin, should the topic ever arise, best to have evidence on his side of things. 

“I’m preparing for an argument I’m not even sure I’m going to have.” He snorts, and runs a hand down the purring Admiral’s back. “Pretty sad, isn’t it? I guess that’s loneliness for you.” 

His heart twinges at the thought, the regret settling over him. It’s not that he never spent time with Martin, not like they hadn’t gotten lunch, hadn’t talked. But he’d always kept him at arms length, hasn’t he? Never let him get close, clinging too hard to the thought that even if Martin seemed fine, even if he seemed to care, that could change with a moment’s notice. 

He shakes the thought away and begins opening the videos. It’s not the worst way to spend his evening, and he imagines if his grandmother were here, she’d heartily approve. She was always been trying to get him to take an interest in the traditional forms, the stuttering, stately movements. Personally, Jon suspects now it had more about finding an outlet for his energy. But he supposed he could use that now as well. 

The first handful of videos are a bust, their movements too complicated, some with no explanation, some so slow and tedious he grows bored only a minute in. After some further searches, filtered for ‘beginner’, he settles on a middle aged woman with wings similar to his. Vanity, maybe, but there’s no one here to judge but the Admiral. And as long as Jon keeps the scritches up, he’s quite certain the Admiral will be content to remain pressed quietly against his thigh.

Jon truly only intended to watch the videos when he started, but it’s hard to really understand it from watching alone. He finds himself attempting to mirror her movements with his arms, startling the Admiral out of his slumber with one particularly unfortunate flail. The Admiral growls and scurries away to sit in front of the television, licking a paw rather judgmentally.

“You’re right, it’s never going to work with only my arms. If I’m going to try it, I should at least do it right.” 

Jon stands with a groan, rubbing at the juncture of his wings and his back, pressed too long and hard against the low back of the sofa. It was designed for the comfort of anyone with wings, but that required sitting properly. So maybe for the best he stretch out a bit anyway. 

He sets the laptop on the table, then takes a step back, considering. If he really wants to do this, he’ll need space. And well…he’s certain Georgie wouldn’t mind, and she ideally won’t know. Silly as it is. 

The sofa is moved easily enough, supervised by the ever-watchful Admiral. Having left his previous post, he’s now settled himself on a rather decadent multilevel cat tree off to the side, tail dangling majestically over the edge. 

“You want a better view?” Jon asks, stepping towards him to give him a scritch under his chin. He’s rewarded with half-lidded eyes and a rumbling purr. “I’ll take that as a yes.” 

Then he steps back and takes a deep breath. He’s half-tempted to back down, because why is he even bothering? It’s not like he has anyone to dance for, even if he could somehow manage something that isn’t completely graceless. 

But he’s gone to the effort to move the sofa, so he might as well give it a go. At least then his curiosity will be satisfied. 

It’s awkward, trying to watch the video and mimic the movements. The bends and contortions required make it hard to focus on the screen, but then he supposes that’s the point. This dance requires intense concentration, eyes locked constantly on the object of his affections. And of course a person would be larger than a laptop, and if it were a person, the challenges of focus would be different. Then he’d be more likely to be concerned about messing up again, disappointing him—them—that is, anyone who he might wish to entice. 

Focus. If he wants to understand, he needs to focus. He mimics her movement as she lifts her wing higher, jerking it forward, only to be startled out of the motion by a hiss and a thump. He staggers back, banging into the sofa, only to laugh when he sees the obvious source as the Admiral stalks towards him.

“Sorry, I guess I need to pay more attention to where I’m flapping.”

The Admiral’s tail thrashes, and then he shifts into a crouch. Before Jon can react, he’s springing towards Jon; it’s only by seconds he manages to get his wing out of the way as the Admiral strikes. 

“I’m not a bird,” Jon says sternly, pulling his wing out of the Admiral’s reach again as he takes another opportunistic swipe. The look the Admiral is giving him from where he’s now sat at Jon’s feet seems to indicate he very much questions Jon’s assessment. 

“Fine. I’m a very _large_ bird. One that gives you food and pets. So perhaps we can let the matter rest?” He crouches down to offer the Admiral a hand, which is sniffed daintily. Then he stalks back to the cat tree and jumps back into his former position. As good an answer as Jon is likely to get. 

“Again, I suppose?” He glances at the Admiral for confirmation, but he seems focused on cleaning himself for now. Probably for the best.

The movements should get easier, and they do as Jon runs through them, again and again. Starting the video over, playing it a half-speed, trying to notice all the subtleties. He briefly wishes he had a mirror, before being glad he doesn’t. If he could see himself, he suspects he might want to crawl under the sofa like the Admiral does when he fails to make the jump to the top of the cat tree. A failure of what he’s supposed to be able to do, to be hidden among the dusty clumps of fur in shame. 

Dramatic, and he knows it. What shame is there, to stretch his wings and widen his pupils? For once, to learn something that isn’t going to bring anyone pain or fear or grief. Even if it just brings amusement, that might be worth it. To see someone smile. Though he supposes he doesn’t have many people who’d want even that now. Maybe Martin would get a laugh out of it. 

Or maybe he’d actually manage something impressive. Make Martin applaud, or even gasp, lost for words at Jon’s rather surprising performance. If he could do something like that, wing arching up, flicking out suddenly to—

The lamp hits the floor with a crash, and the room is plunged into darkness. His own swearing mingles with the Admiral’s hissing as Jon scrambles to switch on another lamp. He winces at the floor, though on closer examination only the light bulb is broken. It’s still not something he particularly wants to explain. 

“I’ll tell her you did it,” he says to the Admiral, who is regarding him warily from under the table. As he creeps out slowly, he gives Jon a disdainful look, licking his paw and running it carefully over one tufted ear. Jon sighs and drops onto the sofa. “You’re right. She’d never take my word over yours.”

And anyway, it’s easy enough to tell her he tripped or something. It’s not like anyone would expect him to do this sort of thing anyway. 

“We’ll keep it a secret, won’t we?” He offers his hand to the Admiral, and this time, the offer is rejected. Jon sits back with a sigh, and a rueful little smile. “I suppose that’s fair enough.” 

It’s never worth it, to argue with a cat. And maybe he doesn’t want to keep it a secret after all. Maybe, when he finally goes back, he’ll ask Martin if he’d been willing to tell Jon what he thinks. 

If nothing else, he’ll likely be a kinder critic than the cat.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set immediately after 102, featuring a very drunk berb and a not!date.

Martin’s heart seizes when he sees the lone feather lying on the floor outside Elias’s office. His eyes flick to the door; he can hear shouting—Jon’s voice—though he can’t make out the words. The feather doesn’t mean anything, not a sign that some horrible monster has torn Jon apart. It’s not even that odd; he remembers the first time Jon molted, shabby wings tight against his back as he wandered through the Archives snatching fallen feathers up. Maybe he’s molting again, or maybe this one just fell out. It doesn’t mean anything.

There are so many reasons Martin should leave it. But it’s been so long since he saw Jon, so long since they talked, and it’s the only sign he has of how Jon might be. So after a furtive glance up and down the corridor, he strides towards the door and plucks the feather up, then hurries onwards. 

The feather he tucks away until he makes it to a storage room around the corner from Elias’s office. A bit of an odd place to be if anyone finds him, but well, he’s pretty sure no one’s going to be that shocked to find him doing something a bit odd. 

When he pulls it out from his pocket, his hands trembles. Ridiculous, but thinking it’s ridiculous doesn’t force them to still, and the shaking isn’t bad enough to stop him from getting a good look at it. He half-expects to find blood or other signs of damage. But it’s as bright as ever. Maybe even brighter. And when he traces a finger over the vane, it’s sleek, smooth. Obviously well cared for.

Martin stuffs the feather back into his pocket, and exits the storage room. He’s not really sure where he’s going until he finds his feet taking him back to Elias’s office. _Pretty pathetic, Blackwood_ , he thinks, but he’s long accepted that this is how he is with Jon. And even if this is all there is, bittersweet is better than just bitter. 

The door opens before he can lose his nerve—or regain some sense of humility—and Jon emerges with his feathers puffed up and his hands balled into fists. When his gaze snaps to Martin, his pupils are pinning wildly, black engulfing the golden orange only to disappear just as quickly, cycling again and again. He isn’t Daisy, isn’t the type to have any real predatory instincts, but Martin still feels caught. Trapped under a gaze that seems to see through him, into him. And he can’t help but wonder if there’s something else looking out of those wild eyes.

Jon’s pupils suddenly settle, and his wings droop with clear exhaustion. He takes a hesitant step towards Martin, then another, followed by a backward glance at Elias’s office. 

“Would you like some tea?” Martin says inanely. Christ, could he really not think of anything better? _We’ve missed you, how are you, are you okay_ , any of it would be better than asking him if he wants some bloody tea.

“Yes,” Jon says, giving Martin a weak smile. “I’d love some.”

Then he frowns, another step closing the distance as Martin’s heart plummets. He’s going to change his mind, or ask for it later, or—

Jon’s hand grips Martin’s shoulder, and Martin forces himself to stay focused on those gorgeous eyes as Jon clears his throat and says, “Or maybe something stronger?”

* * *

Of all the places Martin expects to spend his Wednesday night, it definitely isn’t a pub with Jon. And it is _with_ Jon, because Jon doesn’t invite anyone else. Barely speaks to anyone else, before hurrying Martin out into the dreary late afternoon. 

“I just had to get out of there,” Jon says when they reach the small park near the Institute, stretching his wings and flapping them lazily. Looking utterly breathtaking against the grey sky. “It’s a bit, well…”

“Like a cage?” Martin offers, and Jon smiles. Lifting his hand for a moment, almost like he’s reaching for Martin, before letting it drop abruptly to his side. 

“Something like that,” Jon says. “Let’s go.” 

And they do go. The whole thing a blur of terrifying hope, because this isn’t a date, it isn’t. There are ways to ask someone out, and this isn’t it. All it is, all it can be, is that Martin’s been the friendliest to Jon recently, and Jon’s noticed that, and—and he wants company. That’s it. 

Even if he keeps swaying closer to Martin with each drink, and their chairs seem to be getting closer. And sure, his wing does seem to have come up behind Martin’s back in a way that might seem like an arm around his waist. But his other wing is also drooping noticeably. So Jon probably isn’t doing it on purpose. 

“Thank you, Martin,” Jon says, tossing back the rest of his…God, what drink is he on? Too many, that’s all Martin knows now. Jon’s words are slurred, and his pupils are wide as his shoulder comes into contact with Martin, who forces himself not to tense. “I don’t say that enough, you know? Thank you.”

Jon’s said it four times already, but Martin doesn’t bother to correct him. Instead, he focuses on his heartbeat, and how sweaty his palms feel, and his own drink with its melting ice that he’s been nursing for hours. Much as he wants to drink himself, to soothe his frazzled nerves, one of them should be sober, what with an evil circus on the loose. And between them, he thinks Jon’s the one who probably needs this more. 

“Really, it’s not problem? I know you…” Martin’s smile feels a bit forced, but it’s not because he’s lying. He does know Jon appreciates him. It’s just not the whole truth, that it hurts not knowing where he is or what he’s doing. Even before he was kidnapped. And he can see Jon knows it too, as Martin fails to smooth over it. 

“I haven’t been around, even before. I’m going away again. And you—” His wing stretches, brushes Martin’s back. “You work too hard. I worry. Don’t?” 

“Jon,” Martin says softly. He forces himself to meet Jon’s wide and surprisingly earnest eyes. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.” 

Jon snorts in obvious disbelief, which Martin doesn’t think is entirely fair. Particularly when Jon staggers to his feet, and it’s only luck that Martin’s quick enough to catch him.

“I think I might’ve drank too much,” Jon mumbles into Martin’s shirt. It’s pulled taut by Jon’s hands clutching at the fabric. Martin desperately tries not to think about how warm Jon is in all the places they’re touching.

“Yeah, a bit.” He sounds a rather strangled as Jon puts even more of his weight on Martin, but he’s pretty sure Jon is too drunk to notice. The pub seems to fade around them as Martin stares down at Jon, and his hands flex pointlessly at his sides. Wanting to hold Jon, to run his hands over those wings. But no, no. He can’t. So he takes a shuddering breath, and puts both his hands on Jon’s upper arms, gently pushing him to his feet.

“You’re strong,” Jon says, resting a hand over Martin’s. And Christ, if Martin’s cheeks weren’t already burning, that would’ve done it.

“Uh, thanks? But I don’t think I can really carry you or anything, what with the wings and…” Jon is staring up at him with wide eyes, and Martin winces and wishes he could take it back. “Not that I thought you wanted me to, I mean, that would be ridiculous? Wouldn’t it?”

“Right,” Jon says, and he certainly doesn’t sound disappointed. “Ridiculous. And not possible anyway. Wings, right?” He flaps them lazily, and barely misses knocking his glass off the table. “I just...” He laughs softly. “I might need a bit of helping getting home?”

Jon’s trying to kill him. This entire night is a dream come true and a nightmare at the same time, because Jon is reaching for his arm, and there’s only one way to interpret this. Jon wants his help. So Martin wraps his arm around his waist, right under his wings, and hopes he doesn’t have a heart attack before they get back to Jon’s flat. And that’s fine. It’s good. 

Because Jon is warm against him, and alive, and he even smiles when they stagger out into the night. 

“Thank you, Martin. I—I needed this. It was nice and—and normal.” His wings flutter; one brushes the back of Martin’s head. 

“Any time,” Martin says lightly.

He hopes Jon knows how much he means it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set shortly before the Unknowing. Jon finally gets his chance to perform.

It’s the touch that breaks Jon. A small thing, the brush of fingers along the back of his hand before Martin seems to catch himself, pulling abruptly away. But he doesn’t leave, doesn’t make excuses, and he’s already caught Jon’s attention. More than caught it: held it, so tightly it hurts. 

Martin offers Jon a small smile, but he doesn’t speak. Strange, because Martin usually babbles when he’s nervous. Maybe that’s why Melanie and Basira knew. It’s certainly why Jon should’ve known what he can’t unknow now, and oh Christ, ‘Unknowing’ really isn’t what he wants be thinking about right now. 

“Jon…?” 

Martin reaches out again, but his hand doesn’t connect. Doesn’t touch, even though Jon needs him. Martin still doesn’t understand, and Jon can’t find the words.

But Martin’s looking worried now, so Jon has to say _something_.

“What are you thinking?” 

“I’m terrified something’s going to happen to you, and I don’t know what I’d do. And I’m too cowardly to tell you how I—” 

Before Martin can continue, Jon covers his mouth with a hand, feeling the words he knows and wants to deny and is desperate to hear swallowed by his skin. It isn’t fair to Martin, he tells himself, and pretends that’s why he stopped him. That it isn’t cowardice that makes him step back, and draw his wings in tight.

“I’m so, so sorry, Martin. I didn’t mean to, I was careless, and…” What else is there to say? What other apology can he make, for that betrayal of trust? Maybe it’s a small thing. But it’s a sign Jon is slipping, falling further from everything he was. 

“It’s fine,” Martin says, though he sounds a bit strained, and his smile is weaker than before. “I know it’s hard for you.”

“Hard for me?” Jon closes his eyes, and takes a shaky breath. “I left you. I didn’t…” Part of him still wants to defend himself. That he did what was best, what he had to, avoiding the Institute. Avoiding them all, beyond one drunken night he barely remembers now. “I’m sorry. I should’ve been here, and I’ll make up for it.” 

“When you come back,” Martin agrees. His hands are now clasped together, fingers twisting around each other. His motions stir a strange anger in Jon, and an even more dangerous urge to grasp his hand. But he hasn’t yet earned that. 

“Martin, I…” His gaze falls on his desk, where his laptop sits open. A distraction and nothing more, but he still studies it. The browser shows the website of the Bed & Breakfast they’ll be staying at, but he ignores that, throat knotting unpleasantly. He forces his eyes up to the line of websites across the bookmark bar. Funny, to think it hadn’t been long ago he’d been teaching himself to dance. 

Then memory hits him, a wild panic flaring in his chest. It’s a stupid, mad idea. But he thinks—well, what’s the worst that can happen? If nothing else, it might give Martin a laugh.

“I want to show you something,” Jon says, tapping away at his laptop to pull up the music he wants. He surveys his office. Too small for what he wants to do, but there’s enough space in the Archives, and everyone else has left. So he grabs the laptop and heads into the main area, while Martin trails bemusedly behind him. 

“Jon, are you okay?” Martin asks when Jon presses him into a chair, forcing himself not to let his hands linger on Martin’s shoulder. That’s for later, for when he’s earned this. Shown Martin what he means, even if he can’t find the words. 

“Not at all,” Jon says with a rueful laugh. “But don’t worry, this is—” Something he can’t define. “—it’s not part of that.” 

He sets the laptop down, hitting play and taking a deep breath as he waits for the music to begin. Stepping back, he spreads his wings, and bows with only a slight wobble and accompanying corrective flap. Martin’s eyes are wide and shocked, but Jon can’t focus on that. He’s decided to do this. He _needs_ to do this. 

There’s nothing left to say. All that’s left is the dance. 

The flutters are uneven, and he knows his pupils stay too wide when he stares, though from Martin’s small gasp it clearly has some effect. Hopefully not a terrible one, some other horror drawn from him and imposed on others. People he cares about, that he desperately doesn’t want to hurt. Perhaps it’s that terror that makes him stumble, wing banging painfully on a desk. Or maybe it’s just that he’s not very good at this. But when Martin tries to rise, Jon shakes his head. Collects himself. Forces himself to remember the steps.

When he spins, he hears Martin gasp again, and his eyes are shining when Jon lifts a wing and stares out from under it. Like this, he feels almost protected, hidden from the aching longing and terror that twist together inside him. But he knows that’s not the point. It’s a display, a demonstration, no, a _declaration_ of an intent he’s only starting to understand. One that catches in his throat, sparks along muscles that burn with effort. But he forces his wings higher nonetheless. 

The dance comes to a end with another bow, this one more prone to failure. But he’s gone too far now. So he takes those final steps towards Martin, sweeping his wings out and stifling a wince when he hears something crash to the floor. None of that’s important, not when he’s so close, his lowering his head until it’s only inches from Martin’s chest, forcing himself to move forward and close the final distance. 

He’s breathing hard, and he can’t see Martin’s face like this. It’s better that way, he tells himself. Easier to remain, to wait for whatever Martin might do. Jon’s played his part; he just hopes it’s enough. 

Time creeps by, seconds or minutes. He doesn’t know, only that he’s ready to give up when he feels fingers brushing lightly over his hair. His teeth dig into his lip as he suppresses a noise, and instead pushes his head harder against Martin’s chest. 

“Why?” Martin says softly. His fingers are trembling. Jon’s not sure what to do, so he steps back and lifts his head. Martin looks terrified, and that’s not right at all. He should be touching Jon, he should be smiling, and Jon still isn’t sure what to say. 

But Martin asked, so Jon will answer.

“I thought you might want, that is, that you might enjoy seeing it. The dance. It’s traditional.” 

It’s the wrong thing to say, but Martin smiles anyway. And Jon desperately hopes it’s enough.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set between season 3 and the beginning of season 4.

Jon's wings are so bright; he can't be dead.

It's the sight of those wings that stops Martin in the door, that stops his heart as surely as Jon's. They've unplugged the monitors, and they probably shouldn't have told him as much as they did but Martin, well, he lied, didn't he? It's not protocol either, not legal, to tell a boyfriend exactly what's happened. But they're baffled. They're afraid. They’re looking for answers, or excuses not to have them. So they’re happy to confide in Martin, even if that confidence is full of doubt and pity.

They don't understand. Jon will be _fine_. 

Martin sits next to the bed, a wide thing designed to support Jon's wings while he lies on his back. It's shaped a bit oddly, rising up in an arch so Jon's wings don't have too much pressure on them for too long. They talked about turning him on his front, the doctors, one arguing in a hushed voice that he wasn’t breathing anyway, he wasn't going to suffocate. The bed could be used for other patients, and a smaller bed for Jon.

Martin’s hands are steadier than he expects, when he sets the vase on Jon's bedside, and stares down at those beautiful, still wings. When the doctor said that, Martin snapped at him. Jon might wake up at any moment, and then what would happen? The doctor didn't argue. They're all too afraid to argue. Of Jon, or the Institute. Maybe even of Martin, though he doubts that. 

Would Jon want him to touch? Will he even feel it, and if he does, is it something he’s allowed? Martin isn't sure what they are anymore. What he told the nurse was a lie. They're not dating. But maybe it isn't completely a lie. He's searched Google, looked through books, even asked some people, with a dedication born of avoidance and a desire to wallow in all he might well lose. 

Because before Jon left, he danced for Martin. And that means something, even if Jon couldn't say it. Martin knows it means something, and that's enough for his hand to move—though now it's shaking—and drift along the golden feathers of Jon's wing. They're so smooth, so lovely to touch, just as Martin remembers. But each brush of his fingers deepens his dread.

Underneath his touch, Jon's wings are cold. It's meaningless, Martin tells himself. Meaningless for reasons that make his hands shake more, that make him press his palm flat against the wing, willing warmth and life back into it. His brain is still active, the doctors say. Too active. 

Martin wonders what he's dreaming about. Whether in his dream, he dances. And who he dances for. 

Because Jon isn't dead, and his wings are so very, very bright.

* * *

Martin visits again. Of course he does, because he's not Jon's boyfriend, but he's Jon's _something_ , a riot of colored memories flashing before his eyes and speeding his steps down the hospital corridors. As often as he can, he comes, though sometimes it's not as often as he likes. Particularly not with Peter circling, high but always present. A chill omen, winged with white.

It's not terribly odd, to learn that Peter Lukas has the wings of an albatross. After all, lots of people have lots of different wings, and he's a sea captain, isn't he? It only makes sense, for him to be drawn there with wings like those. He comments on it himself, long and lonely voyages broken up by equally lonely flights. He says it all with a distant fondness in his pale yellow eyes. A fondness that seems almost real, in how it makes Martin shiver. 

"I can protect you," Peter says, and his wings spread just like Jon's did when he wanted to protect Martin. They're so much wider, so much stronger than Jon's. And so very, very pale. Staring at them too long, Martin starts to wonder if he imagined the colors on Jon's wings, the brightness of his eyes. 

"I'm fine," Martin says, ignoring the chill a brush of one of Peter's wings brings. Not because of the touch, but because of the feeling underlying it, how horribly familiar, how comforting it is. "I don't need you. _We_ don't need you." 

This brings a smile to Peter's face, one that drives Martin into an afternoon sun that seems oddly drained of heat. It takes him longer than he should to remember that he planned to visit Jon. He brought him a plant, and he knows he can't count on the nurses to water it. They're nervous around Jon, and well, Martin can't really blame them, can he? Even if he finds he does, sometimes. 

When he finally arrives at Jon’s room, he waters the plant and sits down at his bedside like he has so many times before. Jon’s wings are spread as they always are, and his face is peaceful. When Martin reaches out to stroke a wing, it's as cold as ever. And the colors seem more faded.

It's just the angle of the light. And he's tired, and Peter isn't helping, is he? There's no change in Jon. He's resting. He'll wake up. 

And then maybe Martin can wake up as well. For now, though, he closes his eyes, and leaves his hand where it is. Breathing, slow and steady, silent as he waits for something he knows _has to come._

But it's his phone that breaks his reverie. And his quiet sobs alone break the heavy silence.

* * *

"Where's Martin?" Jon asks, his eyes darting around the room. Martin has to be here, he must have understood what Jon meant. He's so clever, Martin. Far cleverer than Jon. 

His eyes fall on the plant, and Basira’s explanation fades away under the roaring in his ears. On his bedside table is a plant. Of a type he recognizes. There's a little note on the stick plunged into the bone dry soil. 

_I hope I'm allowed to make a bower of my own for you._

Jon's hands tremble as he traces the edge of one withered heart-shaped leaf, and when he meets Basira's eyes, he finds pity, and hard answers that are not enough. He has questions only Martin can answer.

"It's not too late," Jon whispers. 

He's not sure who he's talking to. He's not sure if it matters. 

He’s alive. And he will find a way to dance for Martin again.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set early-ish in season 4.

The Institute seems quiet and empty, but Jon isn’t taking any chances. He tugs the dark cloak tighter around him, craning his neck to check for the hundredth time that it’s covering his unfortunately flashy wings. They’d been his downfall before when trying to avoid attracting attention, and he won’t let them be a problem this time. It’s too important.

Or well, perhaps it’s not, in the grand scheme of things. After all, the worst that’s likely to happen is that he’s unceremoniously ejected from the office. It’s not like Lukas can truly do anything to him. And part of Jon wants to meet him, to challenge him in some way. Though he has to admit, doing so in sock feet—another adjustment for stealth—might not give the intimidating impression he desires. 

There’s no sign of anyone, as he pauses and listens, continues on, does it again. And he _knows_ there’s nothing, with a certainty that he shouldn’t take refuge in, but does all the same. What choice does he have? It’s useful, and it’s the only weapon he has. Though he wishes more than anything he could know whether he’ll succeed. Whether doing this will be appreciated, or whether it will be just another mistake as he stumbles his way into something he barely understands.

But he has to do this. If it’s wrong, then it’s wrong. His mistake before was that he never tried, not really. That he refused to see, until it was far too late. He can’t make that mistake again. 

And Martin made him a bower. Even if he abandoned it, that has to mean something.

So he clutches the heavy box under his arm tighter, and makes sure he hasn’t accidentally crushed the plant held tightly in his other hand. Then he crosses to the door, takes a deep breath, and tries to open it. 

It’s trickier than it should be, angling his body to get a grip using the hand not holding the plant, while bracing the box against his body. But he manages it in the end, the door opening without a sound, revealing the moonlit office. 

The light is enough that Jon can see by it, and the desk—Martin’s desk—is clear of anything except his laptop nestled in its docking station, along with the keyboard, mouse and two monitors. The only other items on the desk are a pad of lined paper and a plain metal pen holder, filled with a handful of ballpoint pens. 

Jon feels a tightness in his chest, and something pulls at his neck. He lifts his fingers and finds the tie of the cloak, and realizes he’s lifted his wings, ready to confront—what? The horrible monster that is Martin’s too barren desk? But mundane as it seems, there’s a wrongness to it, one enhanced by the washed out light of the moon. Even the sticky notes on Martin’s computer are a dull yellow, nothing like the bright colors he used to favor. Jon always made sure they had the colorful ones stocked, arguing with Elias about their productivity enhancing qualities and ignoring his clear amusement at what he clearly took to be a ‘bowerbird thing.’ And perhaps it is, but what does it matter if it makes Martin happy?

The plant he places carefully on the desk, repressing the urge to knock the bland pen holder onto the floor as he sets the box on it as well, and begins pulling out the items. First the grow light, which he sets next to the plant, adjusting the angle three times before sighing. Martin will figure it out; he was always better at this than Jon. Or at least he was before but no, no. Martin will take care of the plant. He cares, Jon knows he does. 

But he may as well get this one as ready as possible, and to that end he feeds the cord for the light through the opening on the desk and crawls under to plug it in, keeping his wings tightly against his body. Not the easiest fit, but he manages without mishap, and given the tight squeeze and his general rotten luck, he’s counting it as a win.

The light remains off, and he leaves it for now. Instead he pulls out another item: the salt lamp Martin had left on his old desk. Jon sets it there and cursing himself for not also plugging that while already in position. Another journey under the desk leaves Jon dustier and with one wing slightly bruised from a nervous flap, but it also proves a success. 

He glares at the sticky notes for a moment, and resolves to try and do something about that later. Lukas can’t make Martin use boring sticky notes if the Institute’s supplies run out. It’ll be short work to remove the current supply once he’s done with this, and then it’s the simple matter of making sure Martin has no other options but to use ones in brighter reds and purples and blues. 

But he’s not done here yet. The last item in his box he removes with great care. After all, his last encounter with it, well, it hadn’t gone as planned. He sets it on the desk, tracing a finger along the side, and laughs softly to himself. Ridiculous, to think he once saw some ill-intent it in the eyes of that little ceramic cat. He takes a shaky breath, grabs the pens out of the metal pen holder, and tosses it into the box.

The pen holder still has large crack down the side. The repair hadn’t gone as well as Jon hoped, but it isn’t like it needs to be water tight. And he thinks—he hopes—that Martin will appreciate the sentiment. And maybe even like the small changes Jon made, the clumsy dab of red now gracing the top of the yellow wing. Or at least he’ll get a laugh out of Jon’s lack of artistic skill.

He picks up the now mostly empty box and takes a step back, his throat catching as his eyes fall on the pad of paper. He could leave a note. Plead with Martin, even lie to get him to talk to Jon. If only Martin could see, if only he knew— But no. Jon’s wings flutter helplessly under the cloak, and he turns his back to the desk.

Martin made his choice; Jon needs to respect that. He only hopes Martin knows that Jon made his as well, and that when he sees this, he’ll understand. 

Jon has made his bower; there’s nothing left to do but wait.


	11. Chapter 11

Martin sees his desk and _feels._ It’s enough to send him reeling, clutching at the door frame as he tries not to panic, before deciding closing it is the best option for now. He briefly considers locking it, but he’s not sure that would keep Peter out, and it would definitely look suspicious.

And suspicion is exactly what he needs to avoid right now. Suspicion, and all the emotion he’s shoved down, compacted into a hard lump in the center of his chest. A lump that’s now cracking like an egg, chirping frantically and Christ, he needs to stop. He can’t do this, he can’t _be_ this right now.

The anger that wells up is easier. There’s a cold edge to it, a rejection of all the conciliatory smiles of the past as he picks up the salt lamp and stares at it blankly. Leaving it behind hadn’t been intentional, and it is his. Easy enough to explain to Peter if he wants, daring him to voice a challenge to Martin’s lie. 

But Peter doesn’t do challenge. He smiles and nods agreeably, and lets Martin come to the inevitable conclusions all on his own. It’s too much. He needs a clean break. And if he doesn’t get rid of this stuff before Peter gets here, he’s not sure he’ll be able to look Peter in the eye, and tell him everything is exactly as it should be. 

Knowing Peter, he’ll turn up any minute. He’s all about appearing at the worst possible moments, to the point Martin sometimes wonders if Peter is always watching, always hanging around to make sure Martin doesn’t stray for his promised obligations. In the end, whether he actually is doesn’t really matter, does it? Only that Martin believes it. Or isn’t willing to gamble. 

He shoves aside the worry about Peter’s lurking as he begins to search for a box, trying not to let his gaze linger on the knick knacks now littering his desk. Because he isn’t going to keep them, and he can’t get attached. There are more important things than bright little touches and momentary warmth. He finds a box, setting it on the desk with more force than strictly necessary. If he ever wants to see Jon again, bright and alive and safe—

“Oh no, Jon, why…” His throat closes as he picks up the pen holder. The one that disappeared ages ago. There’s a poorly mended crack running down the side, and already he can piece together what might’ve happened. But that’s not what makes his resolve nearly break. Instead it’s the little bird, no longer solely yellow, instead adorned with an all too familiar splash of red on its wing. 

It’s not a good repair job. The paint is messy, clearly added by someone unused to holding a brush. Martin’s hand tightens as he blinks back the tears he _can’t_ cry. Not yet, and maybe not ever. He closes his eyes as shoves the pen holder ruthlessly into the box. 

And then he hears a familiar click. 

His eyes remain shut, but there’s no denying the whir that fills Martin with an undeniable longing. It’s not that he doesn’t know the tape recorders are probably bad, that he shouldn’t want them. And he knows they aren’t directly controlled by Jon, knows that even if they are, he can’t speak to Jon. 

Maybe that makes it okay, then. To talk to the tape recorder. Maybe that’s why words fall from his lips, even though he knows he shouldn’t. Because they’re not Jon, not under his control. It’s enough for Martin to pretend his own words are an accident. 

“I know you want to see me. Hear from me. Or maybe _you_ don’t, not exactly.” He nods towards the sound of the whirring. “But he does, I know it.” Martin opens his eyes, and his fingers dig into the cardboard as he takes in the tape recorder. His mouth works, and when he finally manages to speak again, his voice is rougher than he likes.

“All dressed up for me, are you?” He traces the smooth plastic, taking in the splashes of color, red and gold with a hint of blue swirled throughout, just to add that extra flare. “I have to say, if you’re planning on hiding from Peter, that really isn’t a good look. Bit flashy, isn’t it?” When he laughs, it almost sounds like real amusement. That’s good. Good especially if Jon listens to the tapes. “I suppose that makes sense, doesn’t it? All eyes on you.”

The tape recorders have never moved before, just appeared. But as Martin continues to pack away the other items Jon added, he finds himself glancing at it, half-expecting the thing to start an awkward little dance. He shakes his head, trying to dismiss the thought. Another thing he shouldn’t dwell on. The sight of Jon extending his wings, turning and bobbing. His eyes on Martin. His head, pressed to Martin’s chest. How soft his hair was, making Martin’s fingers work with memory even now. 

“What do you think I should do with the plant?” Martin says, forcing the longing down. His voice is firm as he regards the offending vegetation, and he doesn’t even glance at the tape recorder. “I suppose I could return it to Jon…” Even as he says it, his heart clenches. It feels took much like rejection. Like a reply to a question he can’t answer. Not yet. “I suppose I could ask Rosie to take care of it? I’m sure she would. Or maybe someone in the library, I know Hannah likes plants.” 

And Jon doesn’t go to library much. That’s better, that’s what he’ll do. Maybe he should give it to Rosie, or return it to Jon. Make it clear just what his answer is, that Jon can’t do this. That Jon needs to wait, and let Martin harden and turn away. It’s the only way he can save Jon. The only way to be sure Jon has a chance to dance again. 

It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t dance for Martin. Just that he can. So Martin puts the lid on the box and shoves it into a closet, then gives the tape recorder a sad smile, before turning it off and tucking it into a drawer. 

He pauses, frowning as he notices the sticky notes in the same drawer. All bright, all colorful, nothing like the ones he’d been using. He dares another glance at the door, then takes out a stack, writing a quick note about an email he needs to send and sticking it to the monitor. A reminder of what he can’t have. 

It can’t be anything more than that.


End file.
